it’s the humility
of how rarely
I have the answer
and the absence
of my wonder at all

like today
when you asked me
why you can’t smile
in a passport photo
I was struck by the fatigue
of my own obedience
my why muscle all dusty and limp

so while we waited for your turn
to have your passport photo taken
and I looked over to see you
grinning defiantly
not understanding
that you’re allowed to smile
in the camera store
just not when the photo is taken

I should have whispered
a reminder about the serious face
we had practiced in the car
but I didn’t say anything
out of a gust of respect
for the way you stood in line
a happy warrior
still full of spirit
for protest.

like what kinds of rituals I want
and what kinds of shoes
and how to start that letter
I’ve wanted to write to her
for so long

but in this rare moment
of adult quiet
I sit in the café with nothing
but London Bridges Falling Down
playing in my head
like a lunatic

there are more verses
than I ever knew
which my son sings in his sleep
he is that obsessed
making versions of the bridge all day
out of books and forks and post-it notes

and here I am
infected with the melody
unable to take advantage
of this loop of time
to plunge into the crispness of thought

so I sit staring
at the bridge across the water
cars strung up high as birds
and if you think about it
it’s really quite a feat
which suddenly makes me shiver
like my son does
whenever we cross one
as he asks
like he always does
if this will be the time
it falls down.

Traffic was light
and I arrive at the yoga studio
earlier than expected

the island of time
lands on my chest
like a child that wants to play

insistent
joyful
making it hard
for me to breathe

it exists
and erodes
simultaneously

my mind twitches
with the urgency to relax
and savour this rare wedge
of unmarked day

I am aware of the irony
but my synapses continue
to clamor over each other
vying for the right answer

should I daydreamor meditatewrite listsor a letterto my unborn child

I look up at the clock and slump with the understanding
that I have lost this moment
to the tornado of indecision

that motherhood has made me
a maven of crisis
but my gift for opportunity
has gone flaccid

I file into the yoga class
I am hollow
of anything but breath
waxy cheerless breath
which I climb inside
vacantly
only later realizing
how sweet it was to unmoor from myself for an hour
not with presence
but with abandon
to some absent foggy place.

One day I should take you to work
you have no idea
that I have high heels
and employees

you see me only in the morning
and as I write my poem
before bed

and those first few weeks after I gave birth
after the midwife parted your old pink fleece and said to meyou can push now
do you remember
his little body
you stretched around us both

I never told you this
I bought a new one
planned to get rid of you
it’s been over ten years
and you’re pilly
and so
pink

the truth is
the new one was sexier
but not as warm
and I missed the way I played
with your floppy collar
as I read
and ate my cereal
all of it
nothing much
and at the same time
such a rare
perfect thing.

I’m with Henry James
who called Charles Dickenssentimental
although it’s worth noting
that Henry
never married.

As for Dickens
it’s his productivity
I admire.

Not inclined to revise
he pushed his pen fast
and released the need
to be perfect.

He loved his audience
more than his ideas
he was all in favour
of quantity.

My son sits next to me on the stairs
and we share a few dried plums
his hand is warm
on my leg.

The stillness is so rare
with a toddler
I ache for the tenderness to last
but it is me who disrupts it
without even moving
an irrepressible urge
to go back upstairs
call someone
write something
conquer the world.

I want to know
were you kind to your ten children
Mr. Dickens
or did you give it all
to us.

You fall asleep beside me
that trick you do
the book stays open
your elbow holding your body up
who knows how long you’ve been away
I only notice because it’s been ages
since you turned the page
but now’s my chance
I love these moments
so rare
when I get to look at you this way
slowly
quietly
not to examine you
just to settle into the recognition
of my remarkable good luck.

When I was eight
my neighbour
wore ponchos and drank
loose leaf tea.
She had long grey hair and bunions
and a Croatian name
that I couldn’t pronounce.

One afternoon
a crank call
a pervert
breathing ugly things
into our ears.
My friend and I tossed the phone
back and forth
giggling how gross
but my stomach was thick
with fear.

Afterwards, we asked if we could jump
on my neighbour’s little trampoline
that she said was good
for her lymphs.
I assumed her lymphs
were her pets
but I was secretly scared
of what kind of animal
she would keep
so I never asked to see them.

She must have sensed something
because she lay us down
cracked the leg
of one of her octopus plants
rubbed it on our temples.
Aloe
she said
it makes the scars
go away.

When I was in university
I heard she’d left a note:
cancer.
A list of rare herbs
a hike deep into the local mountains
a final sleep
please don’t come looking
you’ll never find me
smile for me
I am already
gone.

I did try
but a part of me wished
someone had been there
for her
to rub her temples
as she left.